


you’re a heavy sinner; let me count the ways (all seven)

by Jay815



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3203594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jay815/pseuds/Jay815
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'You run until your legs give out below you, skin your elbows because your knuckles are pressed against your eyes, and you cry for her, mourn for her, because she fought by your side, fought for you, for Laura, died for Laura, and in another life, you could have simply hated her.'</p><p>danny-centric, lawstein-heavy, hollence, hollstein, canon-compliant<br/>(alternatively titled, danny lawrence, my bae)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you’re a heavy sinner; let me count the ways (all seven)

/

 **superbia** **(** _pride_ **)** : the most serious of the seven deadly sins; believing that one is better than others

> _In Dante’s_ Divine Comedy _, penitents are burdened with stone slabs on their necks, forcing them to keep their heads bowed._

  
The first time you encounter her, you’re in your second year, and she slouches into your first _Literary Adaptation and Transgression_ lecture ten minutes late, dressed in all black – ripped jeans, combat boots, and a loose t-shirt hanging off one shoulder.

She catches your eye as she ambles past you – all the way to the back row, of course – and smirks. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the way she has her hands nonchalantly tucked into back pockets, the way she doesn’t look like she’ll be taking any notes, unless it’s with eyeliner on her skin.

You shake your head slightly and go back to paying attention to Professor Khov, who has somehow diverged from explaining the assignments (you’ve already updated the dates onto your iCal and set the reminders for three weeks before each paper’s due) to a tangent about how Anton Chekhov’s works offer huge possibilities for adaptation, but contemporary adaptations fail to properly appreciate his subtlety of language and lose the nuances of his pieces.

You’re seated around the middle of the lecture hall, but you hear an audible yawn from behind you, and you don’t want to make assumptions, but you’re pretty sure it’s from _her_. You take a quick glance back, and you quickly spot her sitting at the end of the back row, legs crossed at the ankles and pushed out into the aisle, eyes half-closed and lips curved into a slight scowl. 

You wonder why someone who seems to care so little would bother even showing up, automatically hoping that she doesn’t end up in your seminar, and then you berate yourself slightly, because maybe she’s not that bad, and maybe you should stop judging.

But then a few minutes later you hear a _thump-thump-thump_ come from behind you, and when you glance around, yep, she’s shifted and is now leaning her chin on one hand, determinedly bored, heavy black boot tapping against the floor.

.

She’s in your seminar, _of course_. 

She strolls into the room – five minutes late, what a surprise – in what you think is a different t-shirt from the one she was wearing two days ago, but you’re not sure.

You’d watched her saunter down the steps after the lecture, stopping behind Professor Khov and gruffly saying something to him in Russian. Your grasp of Russian is limited only to a variety of swears, thanks to a few distant cousins, so you hadn’t lingered, even though he had looked pleased and you’d been curious.

Now, she drops into the chair next to you without a glance, and you work really hard at not rolling your eyes when she irritably introduces herself at your tutor’s prompting.

Never before have you ever heard anyone give their name as reluctantly as _Carmilla Karnstein_ does, and you’re not sure why, it’s not a bad name, after all, if a little old fashioned. You find yourself, as usual, starting to pick her name apart, wondering briefly about etymology and heritage, before you stop yourself and go back to giving your full attention to Mariam, who’s moved on from where they should direct general inquiries to a spiel about the direction the subject will take. 

You ask a question about why most of the prescribed texts are led by male authors’ works, and you can see a few people around you nod.

(You hear Carmilla let out what might be an exasperated puff of air, but you choose to ignore it in favour of what you think is the more important battle.)

Mariam smiles apologetically at you and agrees with you, but reassures you that she’s made sure the adaptations you’ll be looking at in seminar briefly include at least one female-led production each week. You kind of want to press the point, but you also realise that it’s not Mariam’s place or fault, so you just remind yourself to mention this in the Silas Student Assessment Contract at the end of the semester.

(You also remind yourself to watch out for bonnacons in the week after that; Silas University did _not_ take well to criticism.)

This week, you’ve been set Shakespeare’s _Henry IV_ , which isn’t your favourite, but you’ve seen a few adaptations, so you talk about it pretty easily, and you follow Emma’s segue into political and historical influences on adaptations without any trouble. You get into a brief debate with this other girl, Sarah-Jane, about Kenneth Branagh’s portrayal of Prince Hal, whom she thinks is flawless – you don’t disagree – but you aren’t convinced that Branagh, or in fact, the adaptation as a whole, manages to redeem the problematic aspects of the play.

Mariam’s nodding along with you, and you’re pretty sure you’ve got this, but then Carmilla, who hasn’t said anything besides her name for 47 minutes, suddenly brings up this adaptation she watched by a small independent theatre company in London that used an all WoC cast with a queered up Prince Hal and you’re impressed but also a little impatient, and you think your face shows that, because so what?

But then Carmilla glares at you and coolly points out that adaptations are subject to their historical and social contexts, and those that are most well-known usually accord with the status quo and the opinions of the majority but they also allow for an intense amount of transgression if only you knew where to look, _sweetheart_. 

You have a retort formed in your head and you’re about to unleash it, but Mariam interrupts you kind of delightedly, thanking Carmilla for sharing what she feels is an integral point that everyone should keep in mind, because to go above simply critique is a necessary aspect of Literature that prevents the subject from stagnating.

You pretend not to see Carmilla smirking at you lazily as Mariam dismisses the class, but you know your face is red and your ears feel hot as you forcefully shove your laptop into your backpack before walking quickly out of the classroom. 

You _hate_ being condescended to – having three successful older brothers (a neurosurgeon, a bio-engineer, and a tenured professor of anthropology) do that to you your entire life using sources and facts and _experience_ , has been quite enough for you.

(You thought you’d escaped that patronising tone of voice, that knowing smirk, that hot embarrassment pushing at your collarbones, making you burn under the ears, that particular racing of your constricted chest, when you’d fled to _Austria_ , but it seems not.

Much later, this familiar feeling will be thrust upon you again, a crushing weight against your spine, but for now the humiliation is bearable, because it isn’t because of Laura Hollis, doesn’t come close to burning the same way.) 

You think you can hear Sarah-Jane flirting with Carmilla behind you, but you keep your back hunched, your hair falling to cover the side of your face, and you increase the pace of your steps.

/

 

 **gula (** _gluttony_ **)** : the over-indulgence and over-consumption of anything to the point of waste

> _Can be interpreted as selfishness; placing concern with one’s own interests above the well-being or interests of others; the punishment is agonising hunger and thirst._

  
You can’t help yourself, you know there are boundaries and you’re her TA, but it’s only for a semester, and Laura Hollis is thoroughly beautiful in a way that you didn’t know people were allowed to be. Laura Hollis, small and smiling, full of righteous anger and tempestuous willpower, makes you feel clumsy and too big for your skin, makes you want to wipe leftover pie crust from her chin with a thumb, makes you smile so big your jaw aches.

You can’t help yourself when she’s sharp and pointed in class – you’re delighted, because she asks great questions and challenges rehashed conversations about stories and she makes people feel uncomfortable with their complacency.

You can’t help yourself because when you’re talking about _Frankenstein_ and a boy in your seminar dismisses Frankenstein’s monster as fallacious – you’re not sure he actually knows what the word means – she gets hard around the edges.

You know you’re utterly lost when she looks the boy in the eye, jaw clenched, and quietly quotes Caitlyn Siehl.

_“When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it.”_

Laura Hollis lets you latch onto her quest to save the world, and you can’t help but shake your head at the thought, because she is headstrong and foolish, and she makes your gut churn with worry, because she doesn’t seem to register her mortality, doesn’t seem to register what anyone else – _you_ – might feel if she were to ever - 

But you follow her, because you do want to help, you’ve know Elsie for a while and she’s a sweet girl, and you don’t believe she would’ve left without telling any of the Summer Society girls. You follow her because you’re a natural-born leader, but she carries the fire of revolution in her, burns with a fire so bright that moths would gladly swoop into her flames and fall away, charred and luminescent.

You follow her, because she looks at you like you can actually make a difference, makes you feel like everything you’ve ever fought for meant something, makes you try a little harder to do a little better.

But gods above, you think that if Laura Hollis had a place in mythology, (and she damn well _should_ ), she would be the brave hero gutted for refusing to step aside when a Minotaur charges her head-on, fiercely discussing compassion and trust and second chances even as her intestines fall out of her.

You’re _furious_ when you retrieve her and LaFontaine from the library, and you don’t understand the lack of comprehension on her face at your anger. You don’t understand her lack of self-preservation, you don’t understand why she can’t see that your bubbling agitation hides a sharp worry, shields a heavy fear. You’ve read and written so much – usually you have the words, you’ve always had the words – but when Laura looks at you, seemingly surprised at how _angry_ you are because she could’ve been grievously, irreparably harmed, you search and search but you can’t find the words to tell her that you’d rather watch the world burn, watch a hundred more girls get taken, than lose her.

So instead you say, _Seduction eyes?_ because you don’t know how to say _You might be next and I don’t know what to do_.

You say, _The fact that a terrible plan is our only plan is not really a selling point,_ instead of _This plan puts in you in danger and it feels like I can’t breathe._

You say, _You look like you’re about to flee your brooding lover across the moors,_ because you don’t know how to say _Please be careful_ in a voice that doesn’t crack.

.

You would carry her into battle on your shoulders, take the blows aimed at her for your own, bleed for her until you have nothing left to give, but you walk out of her room thinking to yourself that she would rather die, be trampled underfoot and crushed by armour too heavy for her, than be anywhere but on her own two feet, on the ground fighting beside her friends.

.

You scan the lecture halls for her face for days, and when you don’t see her, you push your phone deeper into your backpack, pretend you don’t keep carefully deleting the text you keep writing asking her if she’s okay, if she’s eating well, if she’s sleeping in between vampire-hunting trips.

You nod vaguely at Professor Khov (he’s giving a guest lecture comparing Ibsen’s _Hedda Gabler_ and Chekhov’s _The Seagull_.You’ve prepped for this class for weeks, but right now you can’t even remember the names of any of the characters involved) and you try to force yourself to stop scanning faces, ignore the doubletap of your heart every time the light hits someone’s hair in a way that reminds you of Laura, pretend you don’t feel disappointed when someone asks a question that you know Laura would’ve rolled her eyes at before countering with a better, open-ended one offering more possibilities.

You tell the Summer Society girls that you’ve already eaten, that they can have the rest of the apple pie, pretend you don’t see Laura smiling at you and brandishing a milkshake moustache and a forkful of pie, pretend there isn’t a scalding hollow where your stomach should be, shards of splintered glass where your throat should be.

/

 

 **invidia (** _envy_ **)** : discontent and desire towards someone’s traits, status, abilities; sorrow for another’s good

> _In Dante’s_ Purgatory _, the punishment for gaining pleasure from seeing others brought low was to have your eyes sewn shut with wire._

   
It takes six episodes before you crumble and you watch your face make a return to Laura’s updates. 

(It takes five and a half episodes, one broken laptop, and a severely skinned knee from running too hard for too long before collapsing into a pile of rocks next to the creek – _worst crush ever_ – and you don’t make it past _Not anymore, I don’t_ before your laptop hits the floor, but that part’s not important.)

You wander up to the rooftop of the Astronomy tower, because you’re tall and you loom over people and you always feel too big, but being up there makes you feel small and insignificant in a very reassuring way.

The enchantment that keeps the skies above the Astronomy tower clear exposes stars and galaxies you really shouldn’t be able to see (from anywhere on the planet, much less from Silas), but tonight you don’t think too hard about Silas’s weird, because your head (everything) hurts enough as it is.

You settle yourself on your back right along the edge of the roof, just inside a small ledge; you tuck clenched fists deep into the pockets of your hoodie and tell yourself that your eyes are watering from the wind, nothing else.

 _Unfair and vindictive_ rings in your ears, and you sit up, hold your knees close to your chest, feel the wind whipping through your hair, try to breathe, wonder why you keep fucking up, tell yourself that you’re being stupid, that you’re clearly not meant for each other, that Laura’s drawn to Carmilla the way you’re drawn to Laura and that it’s hopeless, and you don’t do hopeless. 

You try to tell yourself these things, try to force them into your head with fingers pressed against wet eyelids so hard you see stars even with your eyes closed, and you find yourself laughing a little hysterically, because you’re all alone and it looks like you’re 15 floors up (despite what the Silas handbook claims) and the sky is _beautiful_ , and you find yourself wondering if Carmilla’s ever sat where you are, doing the same thing.

Your laugh chokes into a sob halfway out your mouth, and then your sob turns into this rough, pathetic _snarl_ as you slam your left fist against the stone roof again and again until it aches, until your skin is raw and ripped and oozing blood. You lean forward, arms tight around your stomach, and you see again, the way Carmilla looked at Laura when Laura twirled away from her, and you let out this strangled howl, because you know that look.

It’s the same look you gave (give) Laura, still, and it’s a simple look; all it says is _I would gladly burn for you_ , and you’ve seen it on your own face plenty of times – recorded for posterity, you think bitterly – but on Carmilla’s face, it means more to Laura.

You slam your fist against the ground again, think _stop_ and _stupidstupidstupid_ but it’s half-hearted this time, and you’re already feeling the burn in your hands, so you wipe at your eyes, hard, and stand up a little unsteadily.

You stand along the edge carefully, feel the winds buffeting you as you look down, and a thrilled dizziness runs through you because you’re up so _high_ , and there aren’t any safety rails or anything, and you spread your arms slightly, the wind stinging at your knuckles. 

When you close your eyes, you see Carmilla’s embarrassed smile as she offers Laura her bed, you see Laura’s grateful smile, see the chagrin on her face as she says – much too loudly – _worst crush ever_ , which you _know_ Carmilla heard through the bathroom door.

You squeeze your eyelids tighter and you don’t think about the giddy smile that would’ve touched Carmilla’s face, you don’t think about the one you always wore when you re-watched Laura fist-pump on screen as she literally skipped with happiness because of you.

You tell yourself that you don’t see what might’ve been, what was supposed to be, that you don’t imagine yourself in Carmilla’s place, that you don’t care how happy Carmilla looks, because that was _yours_ , that happiness was yours to have, to hold, _Laura_ was yours to cherish and hold close and – 

(You squeeze your eyelids tight and you tell yourself that all you see are stars.)

/

 

 **acedia (** _sloth_ **)** : a failure to do things that one should do

> _Evil exists when good (wo)men fail to act._

  
You find her wandering the edges of the wood, and you watch her morosely kick holes in a few trees and rip branches from a few more before she turns around, eyes dark and empty, to glare at you.

“Careful, _Bohnenstengel_ , if stand there quietly for much longer I might mistake you for a tree, and as you can see, it’s not going very well for these ones over here." 

You can feel your jaw tighten as your hands clench around the burlap sack you’re hefting (it’s full of huge golden mushrooms, purplish apples and narcissi, because Silas’ ecology does not care at all).

You’re tempted to just turn and walk away, because you have a lodge full of girls waiting for you to come with the ingredients they need for the punch tonight, and seeing Carmilla makes your throat tighten up and your chest burn. But there’s a hopeless look on Carmilla’s face, and as you watch the tension collect in her shoulders, you hesitate.

“What’re you doing out here?” _without Laura_ nearly slips out, but you catch yourself just in time. 

You think she understands though, because she looks at you and her eyes are crushed and hollow in a way you recognise from the mirror that morning, but you don’t, not for the briefest second, take any pleasure in her hurt.

Honesty and frankness from Carmilla are not things you have come to expect from her – she’s not given you any reason to, frankly – but she quietly says, “Laura asked me to leave, to run and hide, so here I am,” without any posturing or deflection, and you blink rapidly. 

“Why would she do that?” You’re genuinely confused, and a little bit worried, because you’ve learned very quickly that that’s the last thing Laura would ever ask of anyone.

(Your fingers still tingle from the mis-aimed slap against Amy’s arm, a rash but kind girl from SumSoc who reminds you a little too much of yourself, as you tried to grab the tomato out of her arm. You’d watched with your arm up still holding onto Amy’s wrist, watched hopelessly as the bright red fruit sailed towards the stage, bonking Laura on the head.

You’d tried not to look at her, but you’d still seen the hurt look on her face as she turned and watched you lower your arm.)

Carmilla lets out a harsh laugh and says, “Why wouldn’t she?” and gods, you really don’t have time for this shit, don’t have the patience for Carmilla’s unbearably agonising self-loathing, you should really just walk away but –

“Where’s Laura?” you insist, your breath catching in your throat.

Carmilla just shakes her head slightly, mumbles, “In her room, safe, and where she’ll hopefully stay.”

That should be good enough for you, it really should, because you told Laura, told yourself, that you’d back off, that you were _done_ , but you know you’re not, know that despite yourself you still care, will go to your grave caring too much, always too much, so you take a breath, let it out, and you press for more.

“Explain,” you order, and irritation flashes across Carmilla’s face before she kind of crumples and falls back against a tree, resigned.

She flatly tells you about Laura being possessed by her mother, she tells you about Kirsch – loyal, kind, Kirsch, who is a _complete_ idiot and, like Laura, would go to his grave defending his friends, would rather _die_ than betray them – and she tells you about Laura finding out about this.

Before you know it, there’s a heavy thud from behind you as your sack falls to the ground, spilling mushrooms and apples, and then your hands are tight around the neck of her blouse and you hear the sound of fabric ripping as you push her back against rough bark.

The blood is pounds in your head, your heart, your veins thrum with blind electricity, and you know without a doubt that Carmilla could throw you off in a second, but she’s limp under your hands, eyes blank and begging for you to hit her.

You’re furious, because Laura thought she could trust her, Laura thought Carmilla would help her, Laura thought Carmilla was worth keeping around more than _you_ were. And now Carmilla’s behaved exactly as you’d feared – she’d run away from Laura, she’d walked out, she’d traded Kirsch for Laura, she’d _given up_ and you’re so angry you could cry, because you would’ve done the same thing, would’ve traded the whole damn world to keep Laura safe and smiling, and then you can’t breath, because you realise that you and Carmilla are flip sides of the same coin, centred around _LauraLauraLaura_ , and it burns, because you think you wouldn’t have let Laura make you leave.

Not again. 

“Listen to me, bloodsucker,” and your voice is venomous and harsh and Carmilla looks at you like she couldn’t possibly care any less. “I wouldn’t give a _shit_ if you hid under a rock for the rest of your existence until the sun eats up the earth, but if you think Laura’s going to sit on her hands up in her room until all of this blows over then you don’t know her at all, and you’re in love with her for all the wrong fucking reasons.”

You don’t even blink at her startled eyes when you say it, because you know it’s true, but you also know that some things are more important than romance.

For example, keeping Laura alive.

“So,” you snarl, pushing her harder into the tree, and she winces, but you don’t relent, because this is the most important thing you’re ever going to say to her.

“You’re going to stop sulking in the woods and you’re going to go back. You’re going to convince her to stay in her room; I don’t care how you plan on doing it, but you’re going to go back there and you’re going to keep her safe, and you’re going to keep her alive, and you’re going to be able to do this because she sometimes somewhat _listens_ to you.”

“If shit goes down and she gets hurt, I’m going to stake you in the fucking face,” you add for good measure, letting her go. She’s staring at you with this expression and you’re not sure if it’s pity or confusion or respect or something in between all of those things, and you don’t care _at all_ , because if Laura had trusted you to help her, this would never have happ–

But she didn’t; she’d trusted Carmilla, and the very, very least you could do is make it worth something, for her.

You turn around and start shoving apples and mushrooms back into your sack, your heart racing and you know you’re trembling lightly, but you try to force your fingers to still enough to wrap the twine back around the top of the sack anyway.

Carmilla deigns to squat down next to you, and for some reason that you don’t really care to think about right then, gently takes the twine from you and wraps it around the top of the sack and secures it firmly, then hands it back to you.

You stand there awkwardly for a while, your shadow falling over her face. You swallow the lump in your throat along with your pride, and you hear yourself say in a gruff voice that doesn’t sound like yours, “Hey, coffin-seat, if you or – or Laura need some help… You know where I’m at.”

She cocks her head at you and you roll your eyes, because you’re not even close to being friends, and you don’t need or want any of her sympathy, but you think she smiles at you with her eyes, and she says, “Thanks,” and then she’s gone.

Halfway up the trail towards the SumSoc lodge, you remember Kirsch and SJ and Elsie and Natalie, and you heave emptily onto grass, then you catch your breath with your hands on your knees before you heft your sack up higher on your shoulder and keeping walking towards the Lodge, reminding yourself to check that the weapons cabinet in the basement is unlocked, just in case.

/ 

 

 **ira (** _wrath_ **):** rage; in its purest form, presents with self-destructiveness, violence, and hate; may persist long after the person who did another grievous wrong is dead

> _The sin of wrath encompasses anger pointed internally as well as externally._

  
The tips of your fingertips are numb as you refasten the sling around Kirsch’s neck, and your mouth is dry as you seat Laura on her bed, tuck her blanket around her, try to block as many of the half-glances and stares everyone’s pretending not to throw at her as you can.

She asks you to help with her update, and gods above do you _hate_ that _fucking_ webcam, but _Carmilla’s dead_ and Laura is small and quiet and her eyes are distant as you try to remember how Laura usually starts these. 

So.

You turn away from the camera, because you say _Laura’s kinda having a rough time right now_ , but all you can see is that light again, all you see is _her_ falling into that light, and you don’t know what the expression on your face looks like, but you sure as hell don’t want it captured for posterity, so you turn to Perry, and she takes the hint and takes over for a while, catching you up, too. 

You try to recount her story, you earnestly try to tell the camera just how impressive Carmilla was, because that’s all there is left, so you hold the memory in your mouth and say _Carmilla decks her in the face with her sword hilt_ as if they come close to _Carmilla chose Laura, chose us, chose to fight, chose to face her mom_ , you say it as if it comes close to the words _Carmilla dived so deep into the sea she thought she’d been struck blind and retrieved a sword that burned her to ashes even as she fought harder and harder_.

You feel a smile tug at your lips when Laura imitates Carmilla, not only because it’s a pretty good impression, but also because Laura is so, so strong, and with a little bit of wry humour, she’ll probably be okay, and the thought lifts a heavy weight off your lungs and you think that it feels like relief.

When Kirsch offers you a trident, your smile comes through a little more, because Laura has a lot of classes with Kirsch, and you think that being around him is like a different kind of light, softer and more muted than Laura’s, but important and warm and exactly what Laura needs right now, and you’re glad he wasn’t killed, glad that he’ll be around for all of you.

You ignore the heaviness in your heart when Laura asks you to please upload her videos for her, _because everyone needs to know_ _the truth_ , so you upload the latest episodes as everyone mills around your room awkwardly.

After urging Laura to lie down and get some rest – she curls up into herself and faces the wall and you ignore the throbbing in your chest –you start turning off the lights. But then you see Betty sitting at the back of the room on a stool as if she doesn’t belong there (she doesn’t, and it makes your bones ache even more, because she’s lost so much time and she’s surrounded by people she doesn’t know in a situation no one could prepare for) so you tell her quietly that she can stay with you at the SumSoc Lodge for tonight since there are always spare rooms kept ready, and it’s a more neutral space than Laura’s room.

(You don’t say it’s because you know Laura will be staring at Carmilla’s (unmade) bed all night, and it’s too soon to change the sheets or have anyone else sleep there.

You’re not sure when it will stop being _too soon_.)

You get Elsie to show Betty around the Lodge and to her temporary room, and Elsie does it kindly, bringing Betty some towels and showing her how to work the overly-complicated coffee machine some alumni donated, and you feel a little more reassured, because there is a lot of kindness in the world, and you think that of all times, now is when you are most grateful for it.

.

You wake up crying, because you told her to go back and she did, because you’d told her to keep Laura safe, because you’d told her that you wouldn’t give a shit if she died alone and miserable on the blackened, charred surface of a desolate planet, but you’d lied, and now she’s _saved_ you, all of you, at the cost of her own existence. 

You slip into a hoodie and quickly fall into a familiar speed, your legs pounding hardened trails you know pretty well and which are (on most days) actually there. You make it to a bunch of broken trees before you wipe away the wetness on your face, kick viciously at the splintered hollow Carmilla ripped out from the trunk of a cedar tree less than 12 hours ago, before she died.

If you’re honest with yourself, you’re _furious_ , because she has survived for over 300 years, she has endured being interned in a coffin for _decades_ , she has existed beyond her mother’s abuse, but now she’s _gone_ because you wanted Laura kept alive and you told her that even if it killed her, she’d better make sure that happened.

And then she did, and the anguish coursing through you spills out your mouth in a savage, choked whimper even as you hunch over and grip your knees, oxygen throbbing through your head as you gulp for air.

Eventually you press your fingers against broken bark, heave some deep breaths (you try not to think about suffocation, about kind hands wrapping twine around a sack, about fierce eyes and a dire, knowing smirk) and pull yourself up.

.

You run until your legs give out below you, skin your elbows because your knuckles are pressed against your eyes, and you cry for her, mourn for her, because she fought by your side, fought for you, for Laura, _died_ for Laura, and in another life, you could have simply hated her.

/

 

 **avaritia (** _greed_ **)** : an inordinate desire to acquire or possess more

> _In Dante’s_ Purgatory _, penitents were bound and laid face-down on the ground for having concentrated too much on earthly thoughts._

  
You don’t really remember making your way down the crumbly walls of the pit (your heart had been pounding hard and all you could think about was what you might find there in the gloom; the only thing Kirsch had said to you with a nervous look was that he thought he saw a leather boot and maybe some leather pants when the smoke from the cherry bombs had cleared, but he couldn’t get down there with a broken arm and the other bros had been shit-scared, so here you are) but you remember finding a boot connected to a foot connected to a leg clad in leather pants, finding it difficult to breathe, finding your fingers clumsy and big and useless as they sift away at loose dirt.

Carmilla isn’t moving.

You hold your ear over where her heart should be (distantly, you almost smile, because you know she has one, you do) but you don’t hear a heartbeat either.

You lay your forehead against the dark, musky earth of the pit just above Carmilla’s shoulder, and you breathe lightly into the earth, cradling something that isn’t brave enough to be hope in your chest. 

You take another breath, take the scent of smoke and mud and the slightest hint of grass – _growth_ , you think – into your lungs. You press into the ground and you don’t pray; despite everything, you have held onto your faith in a universe that sometimes gives a little balance back from all it has taken away without needing to be asked.

You hoist Carmilla up carefully, tie her securely against yourself, and by the time you’re hauled over the edge by some Zeta frats, greeted by astounded yelps, your arms are numb and your back aches. But you hold onto her anyway, hold her close, and you don’t let go until you’re back in Laura’s room and you carefully put her down on Laura’s bed.

The ache all that extends all the way into the points of your elbows worsens as you listen to Laura’s _please don’t be dead_ , and you don’t know what to do when her voice cracks, but then there’s a solemn hush in the room for a few seconds as she sits up, and then Carmilla breaks it in a way only she would.

“Well, that was a kick.”

Gods, you could kill her.

Laura flies at Carmilla to hug her, and you twitch, almost step forward to join in – you’re a hugger, let’s face it, and she was _gone_ and now she’s back, and you carried her here as she straddled the line between existing and not, dead weight against your spine – before you remember that she isn’t yours to hold, and you pause.

Laura says _hey_ and Perry’s fingers and eyes flicker frantically at you to leave the room, so you do, without looking back, because this isn’t your moment to have or share in, as much as you want to.

Perry walks you to the main entrance of the dorm building, where you lean against the doorjamb and take a long, deep breath. She searches your eyes and looks like she’s about to say something, but all she does is cautiously ask you if you want a hug. 

You nod and even though you’re taller, Perry’s warm hug somehow wholly envelops you, and it’s _totally fine_ for a few seconds, until you realise tears are leaking from your eyes and your chest is heaving with breathless, choking sobs. Perry manoeuvres you into sitting on the steps, her arm around your shoulders, her other hand carefully pushing the hair from your eyes.

You hear her whisper that _it’ll be okay, it happens_ , but she doesn’t understand.

You aren’t crying because you’ve lost Laura; you’re crying because you lost _her_ and you hadn’t dared to hope at all, not really, but she’s alive, and Laura’s alive, Kirsh, Elsie, Natalie, Betty, LaFontaine, Perry, yourself.

You’re crying because Sarah Jane is dead, because she’d once glared at you for daring to suggest that Doctor Who was anything less than perfect, because the girls back at the Lodge are nursing bruises and broken bones and the heaviness of aging too much in a single night.

You’re crying because Will is dead and the Dean is dead, and Carmilla was dead but she came back, she made it back, and the ground is shaking restlessly, as if looking to reclaim its unearthed victim, but you know Laura would burn Silas to the ground before letting that happen, you know she’ll hold on tight.

You’re crying because you are, almost all of you, alive and well, and that should be enough, and it almost is, but it isn’t. 

/ 

 

 **luxiria (** _lust_ **)** : an intense desire; seeking to forget your emptiness in the intensity of a momentary experience

> _In Dante's_ Purgatorio _, penitents walk within flames to purge themselves of lustful thoughts and feelings._

  
When they find you outside the greenhouse and ask you to run away with them, you say _yeah, I’ll come._  

Then the ground trembles, hard, but that’s not why your voice cracks when you blurt out _No, actually, I can’t_.

You remember that you’re second-in-command to Kara, remember that you have a Lodge full of girls, remember that some of them are injured because _you_ asked them for help, and that a lot of them are going to be staying behind and they need you.

Laura nods, looking disappointed but unsurprised – you smile a bit, because you’re pretty sure she’s assuming all of the wrong reasons for your refusal. She just hugs you quickly and reaches to take Carmilla’s hand, but Carmilla tells her to go finish packing; she needs to do a quick blood-run.

You pretend not to notice as Laura tenderly presses a kiss to Carmilla’s cheek before running off. 

(You pretend not to recognise the soft depths in Carmilla’s eyes as she watches Laura jog up the small hill towards her dorm building.)

You shuffle your feet and mumble, “take care of her, Dead-Undead-Dead-Again Girl,” pull open the greenhouse door.

You’re not sure if you’re more surprised by the sudden shake of the ground that almost pitches you off your feet, or Carmilla’s genuine laugh that bubbles out of her, but they’re both somewhat unsettling.

You hold onto the door and nod at her, a dismissal, but then she says _hey_ and you sigh.

“What?" 

She looks uncomfortable, suddenly, and you roll your eyes.

You say, “If you’re here to say thanks, I’ll probably go into cardiac arrest, so don’t,” and you give her a royal wave, a second attempt at a dismissal.

At that, she grins toothily at you. “Never, Long John. If I ever do that, tie me up again and knock the parasites out of my brain.”

“Gladly,” you grumble, and then you say, “Keep them all safe, okay?” and she nods solemnly; you know she will, but you worry anyway.

You stand there in a silence that almost isn’t awkward for a few seconds, then you roll your eyes and hold your arms out, because you carried her as she straddled the line between existing and not.

She makes a disgusted face at you, but reluctantly steps forward and lets you hug her anyway.

(She’s small and slight, and her body breathes beneath you, _alive_. You hold her gently, and you think _pop culture has so much to answer for_ with a smile, because she’s a vampire and she’s hugging you back and she’s _warm_.)

You hear a muffled, _that’s enough dirt for one day, Goliath_ , and you’re tempted to kiss her on the top of her head, just to irritate her, but you just squeeze her a tiny bit tighter for the briefest second before letting her go. 

She nods at you and then disappears in a puff of smoke, and you shake your head slightly, and mumble _methane_ , wondering if she can hear you.

You gather red roses and carefully strip them of their thorns, hold them with achingly empty arms, bury your face in soft, sun-warmed petals, breathe them in, and wait for the ground to quake beneath you, wait to be thrown off your feet.

/


End file.
